No Atheists in Foxholes
by Esther-Channah
Summary: When Alfred is critically ill, Bruce will pursue every possible means of healing him--even if he has to beg.


Disclaimer: DC owns. The events depicted here were inspired from a story by Scott Beatty.

Context: Gotham Knights #42 (Alfred has the Clench.)

Thanks to Debbie for the beta!

**No Atheists in Foxholes**

Bruce sits at the window, watching as the night sky grows lighter. Maybe if he'd gone out earlier, he wouldn't be this tense, now. But he can't shake the feeling that if he'd left, Alfred would be gon… He shies away from completing the thought, as though doing so would curse its reality into existence.

They'll know soon whether the antibiotics will work. _The antibiotics will work. They have to._ Bruce repeats this to himself fervently, not sure whether he's trying to remind himself or convince himself. Alfred will pull through. He'd thought he'd fall apart when Jim got shot. _If it was a choice between…_ he squelches that thought as well. Alfred will pull through. _Please G_—he trembles. He hasn't asked HIM for anything in a long time. Not since he was eight, to be precise. Back then, he'd prayed, he'd cried, he'd pleaded for his parents to come back. And the answer from on high had been an unequivocal 'No'. After the funeral, Bruce had informed Alfred that he wasn't going to church ever again. For the most part, he'd stuck to that. Whenever circumstances had forced his attendance, Bruce would sit, stone-faced, and stare straight ahead. If G-d wasn't going to listen, then Bruce sure as hell wasn't going to talk to him.

_But Alfred might d…_

The first faint streaks of sunlight appear on the horizon. Bruce can't recall the last time he watched the sun rise from upstairs in the manor. _Are you listening?_ Abruptly, he breaks off again. He feels silly. A conversation he overheard long ago comes to his mind. Barbara was telling Dick about some old books she was donating to a rummage sale. One of them, apparently, was about a twelve-year-old girl who was trying to determine her religious identity, and who frequently engaged in conversations, rather than prayers, with the One above. Bruce had been surprised that Barbara had held onto the book for that long—it hadn't sounded like something that would have interested her.

_Is this what you want?_ He asks. _Don't tell me. You're upset that I've been ignoring you, so you had to do this to wake me up, right?_ He shakes his head. _No. That's stupid. If you're really out there, then I can't believe you're so petty that you'd try something like this just because I haven't spoken to you in over twenty-five years. Twenty-five years. That's… what? An eighth of a nanosecond for you? Considering what I said to you the last time, I'm really having a hard time convincing myself you've missed me that much. _His lips twitch for a moment. Then he closes his eyes. _Alright, fine, you've got my attention. But the thing is, if you're really up there, then I don't even know why I'm bothering with this. You already know what I want without my having to put this into words._ He pauses. Dick's castigated him before about assuming that words are unnecessary. He takes a deep breath. "Please." His voice is barely a whisper. "Let Alfred live. If you can do anything, you can do this. If this is to get back at me, then punish _me_, not him. I'm the one who spends all my time in the cave—he only goes down there for my sake. Look, I know I haven't talked to you recently, but that has nothing to do with him. I… I'm not going to bargain. What do I have to bargain with? If you're out there… if you can do anything… then you're going to do it, with or without my permission. You could snap your fingers and everything I own, everything I've accomplished could be gone. So what's the point of telling you that you can take it?" His fingers curl into fists. His eyes squeeze shut. "Take it. Take everything. Just… let him live. Let the medicine work, or let something else work. I'm not going to be fussy. Please. Just let him live. Let him live. Let him live…"

There is a rational basis for what he's doing, Bruce tells himself. After all, there have been scientific studies that have purported to show the efficacy of prayer. Bruce has read them, along with their rebuttals. Until now, he's sided with the skeptics. In many ways, he still does. But if there's the slightest chance that the words pouring out of him now can somehow tip the scales in Alfred's favor, can he dare to stem their flow?

_Let him live… let him live…_ It's become a mantra for him.

The sun appears over the horizon. Bruce slowly rises. He feels drained, both physically and emotionally. Isn't he supposed to get some sort of 'sense of calm'? Isn't that what all of those "Chicken Soup for the Soul" and pop-spirituality books describe? All Bruce can feel is that same dread that has surrounded him since he came home to find Alfred lying on the floor of the cave.

His heart is pounding as he pads down the hall carpet to Alfred's room. The door is ajar, and he can hear Dick reading aloud. He recognizes the text: _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, Act five, about two hundred thirty lines into Scene one.

"Not so, my lord, for his valor cannot carry his discretion and…"

Bruce freezes. Why has Dick stopped? No… _Please… _He forces himself to walk the last few steps to the threshold of the room.

"And…" Dick starts to read again.

"And the fox…" The second voice is weak, slurred, barely audible. At first, Bruce isn't sure he's heard it. From the way Dick leans forward, Bruce can tell he's not the only one doubting the evidence of his ears. Alfred continues, "… carries the goose."

Dick nods slowly, and Bruce sees a tear spill out of the younger man's eye and start to descend his cheek. "His discretion," Dick resumes, "cannot carry his valor; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well…"

Bruce nods, as he feels his own eyes threaten to overflow. He looks outside Alfred's window. The sun is ascending now, and it looks like clear skies from here on in. He keeps his eyes on the highest part of the sky he can see from where he's standing.

Instinctively, his mind frames his second prayer in less than an hour.

_Thanks_.


End file.
